I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.

I loved my country, and I hated him.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.